by Ron Chudley
His feet brushed over stones.
For a moment the news didn’t register. Nevertheless, primitive pathways conveyed vital data to his nervous system. Legs and arms reached out, scrambling for the land that he now knew was there. His first actual thought was a surge of joy as his feet struck bottom, then pistoned him to the surface. His head broke out and air screamed down his throat. He flopped back, but got another full breath before going under. Then he surfaced again, leaping and slipping, plunging and jumping, sideways to the current, up a steady incline that was leading to shore. The water was at his thighs, his knees, his calves: at ankle depth he slipped and fell flat, cracking knees and elbows on the stones, but hardly feeling the impact. He lay flat, head to one side, gurgling, panting, sucking precious breaths of life.
At last, prompted by a vague warning that if he didn’t move, he might pass out, he crawled through the shallows. Stones became gravel, water gave way to a rain-drenched strand. He moved up until gravel was replaced by the softest pillow, which, with fuzzy wonder, he recognized as grass.
That was his last thought.
• • •
A baby was crying. The sound was right in his ear. He realized with irritation that the infant was sucking and drooling on it. Someone ought to feed the brat, he thought, or at least remove it, so he could get back to sleep. But that didn’t happen. And after a time it seemed that the wailing noise was more like that of an animal. A dog. But he didn’t own a dog. If he had, he certainly wouldn’t have allowed it on the bed . . .
“Hatch. What is it? What have you found?”
He became aware of a voice, calling from some distance. It seemed vaguely familiar. At last, the woman must be coming for her baby—her dog—whatever . . .
“Where are you, boy? Oh, there—oh no!”
The voice was right above him—almost a scream—too loud. And there was bright light wavering on his face. Damn! Couldn’t she just take her dog and leave him in peace? Without opening his eyes, he weakly tried to wave her off.
“Greg! Thank God—you’re alive! How did . . . ? What are you doing . . . ? Hatch, back off. Oh, dear—hold on!”
Hands were on him, rolling him uncomfortably on the bed. And the voice, which he realized must be his mother, kept chattering senseless questions while her hands were on him, slapping, stroking, then, when he began to shiver violently, pulling up the covers . . .
He opened his eyes.
The figure crouched above him, outlined by some sort of light, was definitely a woman. But not his mother. Of course, his mother was . . . “Lucy?”
“Greg, you’re conscious. Thank Heaven! What were you . . . ? Never mind. Gotta get you up. Can you move? Come on, you’re going to die of exposure! Up—up—we can do it . . .”
The assault on his body was relentless. As he somehow became vertical and started to stagger along, propped and half carried, propelled by the sturdy legs beside him, he had no idea of what all this might mean. He just knew that, despite the confusion and jolting disarray, he felt surprisingly peaceful. Right foot, left foot, over and over, waver and recover, on and on and on . . .
Then, bright light and more commands. “Look out—watch—up now.” Hazy vision showed steps, which his feet—for some reason, bare—were being urged to climb. Then they were moving again, over a smooth surface, through air that seemed as mild and welcoming as a warm bath. A little later there was another voice, female too, but older—that surely must be his mother—expressing shock and concern from a long way off.
At last, the voices faded. His legs, which, despite the help, seemed now to be straining through molasses, were stopped by something firm. A gentle force from behind made the top half of him keep going. He toppled forward, coming to rest in the most welcoming place he’d known since leaving his mother’s womb.
Curled fetus-like, he slept.
TWENTY-SIX
He awoke in a haze of gold. At first he thought he was still dreaming, then came the slow understanding that he was conscious, lying on his back, with what felt like sunlight shining on his face. He’d dozed off while taking a rest from working in the garden; that must be it. He couldn’t recall exactly what he’d been doing, but he felt so deliciously comfortable that for a while, he couldn’t be bothered opening his eyes to find out.
Then doubt came seeping through a crack in his contentment: this didn’t feel like the outside. He opened his eyes, squinting in the bright light. Sun was shining through uncurtained windows, cheerily illuminating the place where he lay: not a garden, but a bed. He sat up, moving his head out of the light so he could properly see his surroundings. The bed was in a strange room: chintz, floral wallpaper, pretty knick-knacks, painted furniture: a fairy-tale scene, which Greg regarded with astonishment.
Then his attention centred on an anomaly: a neatly folded stack of adult-looking clothes on one of the chairs. This caused him to become aware of his own body, which he discovered was naked beneath the bedclothes. Surprise deepened into confusion and embarrassment. What in hell . . . ?
Then it all came back.
The process of remembering didn’t have the mercy of gentleness. It was like a trap door opening on an abyss. Revealed in brutal detail were the events that had led to his waking up—by some miracle—in this improbable place. He closed his eyes, as if that would shut out the flood of the sickening saga, and groaned.
There came a tapping on the door, low but insistent. “Hello?” Lucy’s voice called. “Are you awake?”
Greg turned his groan into a weak affirmative, and Lucy opened the door. Seeing him sitting up, she smiled and entered briskly.
“Good morning.”
“Er—hello.”
“Well, don’t you look better! The poor drowned rat has turned into a regular Adonis.”
The words perplexed him; well, the “drowned rat” bit was obvious enough, but “Adonis”? Then he got it, blushed and, in a gesture he instantly regretted, pulled the sheet up to his chin. “Oh, man, I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
She smiled and sat on the bed. “Don’t be ridiculous. What would have really embarrassed me is if I’d found you dead. Anyway—you gave Mum the best thrill she’s had in years.”
“Your mother . . . ?” That detail, at the near-unconscious end of his ordeal, had eluded him. “Oh, shit! I’m so sorry . . .”
“Don’t be silly. This isn’t the nineteenth century. All we care about is that you’re okay.”
Greg relaxed a little. “Yeah, thanks,” he began. Then something else arose, a fierce necessity that had to be attended to right now, and he said, “Lucy, listen, I know I owe you all kinds of explanations . . .”
“If you think so . . .”
“I do! And I will. But there’s one thing I must tell you right now.”
“That you didn’t jump into the river on purpose?”
He stared. “How did you know?”
Lucy smiled palely. “Because I know you. Your mother might have needed to end things that way, but you never would. Look, after we’d got you in bed, I went over to your place to see if I could find out what had happened. I found it deserted, doors open, lights blazing, an empty whisky bottle in the kitchen and your wet clothes in a heap. Okay, it even looked like maybe you’d got wasted and decided to take the easy way. But Greg, I just knew there had to be more to it than that.”
“Why?”
Lucy smiled in exasperation. “Because you’re so damn straight.”
“Oh.”
“No, I don’t mean dull, or goody-goody. I mean—well—pig-headed. Easy ways out just aren’t you. If they were, you’d have let your father run your life and become a bad artist instead of a good accountant. That’s all I know. And hey, I was right, wasn’t I?” She squeezed his hand and rose. “These clothes are some of my dad’s. When you feel like getting up, I’ll make breakfast.”
“Thanks. Now that you mention it, I’m ravenous.”
“Okay, good. And then . . .”
“Then?”
“Maybe you’ll finally tell me what’s going on.”
• • •
Later, relaxed and fed, dressed in Lucy’s father’s clothes, which fit him quite well, seated in the kitchen, Greg unburdened himself of the entire story. To his relief, Lucy’s mother wasn’t present; telling the truth to Lucy was hard enough. Starting with what she already knew—what she, indeed, had revealed to him—the “account inspector” fraud, he told her about his own troubles: the identity theft, the diversion of his mail, which, by providing the criminals with information, had led to his parents’ deaths, his terrible guilt, which in turn had brought inspiration, and the trick that had turned out so fatally. He left nothing out. When he reached the part about Jay, the outcome seemed so obvious that Greg was embarrassed not to have foreseen it.
• • •
“I just had the meeting last night in that awful casino place in Duncan,” he concluded wearily. “I thought Jay would want money, but it’s worse.”
Lucy, who had listened transfixed, shook her head. “What could be worse than blackmail?”
“He’s decided to make me his partner.”
Lucy frowned. “Partner?”
“Using the property—and my money—to make and sell drugs.”
“And if you refuse?”
“He’s got the evidence to get me convicted of murder.”
“But you didn’t kill anyone!”
“Who’s going to believe that?”
“Does he have the gun, too?”
“No. At least I got rid of that.”
“How?”
“Threw it off the Johnson Street Bridge in Victoria.”
“Well, certainly no one will ever find it there.” Lucy laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“I was just thinking—you may not be a crook, but you seem to know how to cover your tracks.”
“Don’t joke. What I am is a damn fool.”
“I’m not joking, actually. And you’re not a fool. You tried to do a good deed. In your own way, to right a terrible wrong. And you might have pulled it off. If your parents knew what you tried to do, they’d be proud.”
“Yeah? Dad would think I’m a moron.”
“You’re wrong. Walter may have been bad tempered, but one thing he did admire was guts. He had more than most people himself. That’s what helped him keep going after his work stopped being fashionable. It also made him pretty impossible, I’ll agree, but he was a fanatic about—as he saw it—doing the right thing. And that, incidentally, is why you’re so much alike.”
Greg’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding!”
“Come on, Greg, do you think just because he was into art and you like figures that you’re so very different? That’s just what you do. What you are is like mirror images. He all bluster, you all ice. But you’re equally stubborn and, frankly, with the same sort of blindness about each other. Yes, I know I’m talking as if Walter were still alive, but you know what I mean. And if he were here now, he’d see what he’d missed in you: someone amazingly like himself, with a whole heap of integrity and courage.”
Lucy stopped, looking awkward.
“Wow!” Greg breathed.
“Sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But it is what I believe.”
Greg smiled. “The truth as you see it, eh? You’ve certainly never been one to hold back on that. Probably that’s why Dad thought you were so great. Anyway, I’m not embarrassed. With anyone else, maybe. Not you. I just hope I can live up to what you think of me. Especially, right now, the ‘courage’ bit.”
“Lucy, dear?”
The voice was that of Shirl Lynley, calling from farther off in the house. “Oh, goodness—Mum!” Lucy said, rising. “This time of day I usually help her dress.” She headed out of the kitchen, turning at the door. “Greg, she was very worried about you. Could you come and just pop your head in? She’ll be so happy to see you’re okay.”
Greg nodded and followed Lucy through the house. When they arrived at Shirl’s room, he did as requested, stopping at the door and standing where the old lady could see him. She was sitting, well propped with pillows, looking frail but alert as her gaze met his own. She smiled with such evident affection and relief that any mortification Greg might have felt at having paraded before her in the altogether slipped away. “Morning, Mrs. Lynley,” he said from the doorway. “How are you today?”
The woman’s smile took on a tinge on amusement. “As well as can be expected, dear. More importantly—how are you?”
“I’m okay. Much better—thanks to both of you.”
Her smile deepened. “Not forgetting Hatch, of course. He’s the one who found you, I’m told.”
“I’ll make sure to thank him too.”
After the laugh, there was a pause. The three looked at each other, a host of things unsaid. Greg presumed that Lucy would tell her mother the whole story. Then Shirl turned to her daughter and said, “Dear, I don’t think I want to get up yet, after all. Just give my shot and help me get comfortable. And maybe bring me a little more tea.”
Lucy began preparations for the first task. As Greg was about to leave, Shirl re-engaged him with her steady gaze. “You see, I have a wonderful daughter, Greg.”
Lucy made dismissive sounds. Greg said, “I certainly do see that.”
Lucy plumped pillows so energetically that her mother restrained her. With a quiet smile, she said, “Nothing is quite so humbling as having our children do for us what we used to do for them. But I don’t know what I would do without Lucy.” She planted a kiss on Lucy’s hand and gently pushed her daughter away. “Forget the tea, dear. I’ll have it later. And I don’t need the insulin yet. Off you go now. I’m sure you two have lots more to talk about.”
They left her there and returned to the kitchen. Their talk certainly wasn’t finished, but somehow, without having come to a conscious decision, Greg knew what he had to do.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As he approached Victoria Police Headquarters, a study in modern steel and glass that still managed to look like a cop shop, Greg paused, thinking, What if they never let me back out again? He grimaced, then shrugged philosophically. Whatever happened as a consequence of this action, it had to be better than the alternative. He’d considered hiring a lawyer to accompany him to the meeting. That might have been prudent—possibly he was crazy not to—but he hadn’t, largely because it would make him feel so guilty. If that was his attitude, he knew he’d probably act like it, which could be fatal. Considering all that had happened, his only hope was that the police would believe his story. Good luck on that, buddy, he thought wryly. Then, squelching the last-minute jitters, he went in.
Sergeant Tremblay was at his desk, poring over a file and scratching his red buzz cut with a pencil when Greg appeared. Since he had made an appointment, the policeman showed no surprise. Something in Greg’s manner must have alerted him, however, because, having waved his visitor to a chair, he rose and closed the door as he had before. He wasted no time with formalities, but put his elbows on his desk, leaned forward and said simply, “Okay, Mr. Lothian, how can I help you?”
Greg knew that there was no quick or easy way to do this. So, much as he had with Lucy, he started at the beginning and told the whole story.
The sergeant didn’t comment, question or otherwise interrupt. He just listened, occasionally giving the tiniest of nods. But as the narrative progressed, his expression, though remaining scrupulously neutral, took on a distinctly glazed undertone. This intensified until, when Greg was describing his meeting with Jay at the casino, his face was like a pale mask.
The only detail Greg omitted was his late-night plunge into the Cowichan River. Since this was merely the result of mischance and whisky, and added nothing to the salient facts, he felt he could at least spare himself that humiliation. He also left out the fact that he’d already unburdened himself to his neighbour; indeed, he made no reference to Lucy at all, fig
uring that she had enough on her plate without being brought into this. He ended by relating Jay’s threats and outrageous plans, letting that stand as the reason for his belated decision to come clean.
When he was done, the silence was so complete that Greg could hear the traffic going by on Caledonia Avenue and a burst of laughter from the office next door. Sergeant Tremblay was no longer looking at him directly. Face still mask-like, he seemed to be examining a spot somewhere above Greg’s head. He impulsively squeezed his eyes shut and rose, as if propelled by invisible springs. Three strides took him to the window, where he stared studiously down at the street. For several minutes he remained thus, while Greg watched, not daring to move or say a word. At last, like a statue on a slowly revolving plinth, the sergeant turned. His face was still blank, but now, instead of pale, it was nearly as red as his hair.
Then Greg almost fell backward as Tremblay launched himself across the room and in less than a second was towering over his chair. His hand flashed out and Greg winced, expecting a blow. But, rather than striking, the sergeant’s strong fingers grabbed Greg’s jacket and hauled him to his feet.
Oh, man, this is it! Greg thought. He’s going to tell me I’m under arrest for murder. Damn, I should have brought that lawyer, after all.
But that was not how it went. Having glowered at him, eyeball to eyeball, for several long moments, Tremblay released his grip, allowing Greg to sink back into his chair. At last the sergeant spoke, voice barely more than a whisper. “Who else knows about this?”
Greg gawked dazedly. “Come again?”
“Are you suddenly deaf?” Tremblay snarled. “I said, who else knows?”
“Nobody! I’ve told no one.”
